Old letters, wrapped in ribbon, stored in a box, and lost in the furthest reaches of the attic...
“Angela, what are you doing up there?” her mother called from below. But Angela, squatting in cobwebs and dust, was slowly untying the threads and letting them go.
Hidden words; hidden trust. The letters, all marked “return to sender,” included a faded photograph. She heard footsteps on the stair.
“I was going to tell you,” her mother said.
“Tell me what?”
“Tell you who you are.”
The letters were the story of Angela’s life, told by parents who wished they’d been there.